


Lost and Found

by shadowrogue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Assassination, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Minor Zevran Arainai/Warden, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Slavery, Ultimate Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29805780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowrogue/pseuds/shadowrogue
Summary: Tabris gave her life to end the Blight. The least Zevran can do is bring her people home.
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris, Zevran Arainai/Female Warden
Kudos: 7





	Lost and Found

* * *

_What did I do to deserve you?  
I follow your steps with my feet.  
I walk on the road that you started.  
I need you to know that I heard you, every word._

_In case you don't live forever, let me tell you the truth;  
as long as I'm here as I am, so are you._

* * *

Ashiri felt her spine stiffen as Magister Fiora strode into the room, her expression cross, long nails clutching her staff as she moved to stand before the grand fireplace. The cloth held in the young elf's hand trembled as she returned to polishing the wooden chest in front of her, now much too focused on a stain that didn't exist.

She'd heard Tennen cry out from the kitchens only moments before. Had listened to the faint sounds of a heated argument followed by the ear-splitting hiss of violent, crackling magic. Then all had gone silent; much too hushed for Ashiri's comfort, the breaking of a log in the hearth loud enough to startle her every last nerve. The hairs on her arm still stood on end, her tongue thick in her mouth.

_"Do not scream."_

Ashiri froze, eyes wide at the sound of a low voice near the tip of her ear, at the feel of warm breath upon her neck. She spun around, dropping her cloth to the floor in a panic, her already fluttering heart now thundering against her ribs.

Yet there was no one there. She slowly scanned the room - the velvet chaise lounge, the ornate cabinet propped up against the wall. Nothing. No one, save for her mistress, who'd leaned her staff against the wall and now stood with her arms folded across her chest, the stance pulling at the much too-tight laces of her bodice.

A trick of the mind then. A figment of her wild imagination.

Ashiri hesitantly picked up her cloth, meaning to return to the chest, then stalled, a flicker of movement catching her eye. She turned, puzzled, watching the nearby curtains blow about in a dance. Had that window been open this entire time? It was the dead of winter, and all of them should have been locked. She quickly scurried over to it, knowing the draft would get her into trouble.

That's when she heard a creak aloft her head. Barely audible - one that would've been nonexistent had Tennen still been cooking, shuffling about his pots and pans. She took a deep breath to steel herself, then raised her gaze to the rafters above, to the large wooden beams that supported the weight of the second story.

Barely visible in the shadows of the overhead infrastructure, a lone figure wrapped all in black crouched low, his hood drawn. There were short, curved swords fastened to his back, as well as visible daggers strapped to holsters on his thighs.

Ashiri could hardly breathe, let alone scream as the figure suddenly sprang beam to beam across the room. She staggered backwards in fright, fumbling as she tripped. Out of reflex she grabbed the curtains in a fistful. The tearing of fabric ripped through the air, Fiora turning on her with a narrowed gaze that was pure ice, the wrinkles on her face only made worse by a scowl.

"You stupid girl - look what you've done! I daresay you're as useless as that fork-tongued brother of yours," she spat.

Ashiri felt herself grow small as the woman approached. Even smaller than she had been the day she was purchased on the border of Orlais.

"I-I apologize. I didn't mean to. It was an accident..."

Her words trailed off as the man suddenly dropped down from the ceiling, landing soundlessly behind her mistress. He rose up to full height with the grace of a master predator, his body uncoiling as the fire behind him bathed his dark silhouette in a pillar of smoke. He resembled little more than a Shade. Ashiri lifted her hand; pointing, trembling. It was all she could manage to do.

"Now what? Gawking imbeciles, the both of you. Have you knife-ears no manners whatsoever?"

The man in black visibly tensed at the slur, pulling the daggers from his sides. He flipped them through his fingers into lethal, sideways grips, and in less than a single tick of the nearby clock they were crossed in either direction, overlapped across Fiora's pale throat.

There was no ransom prattled off, no demands made - no time at all for the Magister to react. The blades glided through her skin seamlessly, blood bubbling out from her neck. It flowed down the front of her bodice, dripping over her skirts. She choked, sputtering as she raised both hands in an attempt to heal herself, faint green light glowing from her palms before slowly flickering out.

The man's voice was lightly coated steel, menacing, his thick accent something Ashiri couldn't quite place.

_"Anjara Tabris sends her regards."_

Tabris...? Why did Ashiri recognize that name?

The mage's body crumpled into an unnatural heap, folding in upon itself. The thud it made as it splashed into the crimson puddle below was nearly enough to make Ashiri's stomach overturn.

So much blood. Did a person really have _that_ much blood inside of them? And why was it still flowing?

Maker, let it _stop_.

She fell to her knees shaking, praying for mercy as she listened to the sharp snap of Fiora's staff, then the clatter as it was tossed into the flames. Perhaps this was Death itself, come to collect. She simply wished for it to be quick.

Though the silencing sting of steel never came her way. She peered up through the filter of her bangs, watching in confusion as the man lazily rolled Fiora's corpse over, unbothered by the sticky red blots that flicked against his boots. He fished through her robes, pulling out her coin purse, then delicately removed her large, intricate necklace. He held it up in the firelight, inspecting the rubies as they glistened. Then pocketed it as if satisfied.

When he turned to Ashiri she flinched, cowering. His stance instantly relaxed upon seeing her reaction. He raised both hands to show they were now empty, then reached to remove his cowl.

Long blond hair spilled from his hood well past his collar, only kept away from his tattoo'd, dark complexion by intricate braids that ran back from either side of his temples.

Though all of those traits were secondary to the fact that he had a flat bride of a nose and tall, pointed ears. Those were the features that most caught her attention, the ones she lingered on.

A woman's voice from childhood seemed to echo in the back of her mind, as if chastising her all over again.

 _Of_ course _there are elvhen heroes_ , the young bride had said.

"I apologize if I frightened you. I could've simply poisoned her, but where's the fun in that?"

He chuckled, an easy smile spreading across his face.

"I suppose I'll always have a flair for the dramatic..." He rolled Fiora back over with his foot, her teeth striking the hardwood with a sickening scraping sound. He shrugged. "...call it a character flaw."

He stepped forward, offering his gloved hand. Ashiri didn't know what else to do besides take it. He pulled her to her feet with astonishing ease, holding out the coin purse.

"Something to help you get settled back in Ferelden," he explained, as if that made any sense. He paused and looked her over quizzically when she made no move to accept it. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Ashiri's throat was dry. She swallowed hard. "One and six, Ser."

His features clouded over for a split second, the same fury as before blazing in his amber eyes.

"You were one of the children then...are there any other slaves in this mansion, besides you?"

"Only my brother, Tennen. I...I think he's hurt. He's in the kitchens."

The man nodded in acknowledgement, moving as if to clap her on the shoulder, then drew back, deciding against it.

"Do not fret. I will tend to him. In the meanwhile, go and dress for warmth and travel. We will meet you at the back door."

Ashiri's head was spinning as he began to stride away.

"Wait! I don't understand. Please - where are you taking us?"

The elf turned to glance over his shoulder briefly.

"To Denerim, of course."

_Home...?_

Ashiri could hardly remember the alienage where she had been born. Being a slave was all she had known for so long now. There were vague memories of course, bits and pieces of scenes she could replay in her head; running through the dirt beneath the towering tree in the center of the community, dueling her brother with sticks in the alleyways near the bridge, the boarded loft bed she'd shared with their feral cat. She'd never had a father, but could easily conjure up her mother's face and raven hair, as well as the song she'd sang to them each night as they'd fallen asleep.

She'd never thought she'd see her again. Was she really going home? Was she truly _free_?

The man in black bandaged her brother's face with a makeshift wrap, handing him a bright red potion that smelled positively dreadful. Ashiri wasn't sure she wanted to see the eye underneath that torn bit of linen. Or, she thought grimly, what was left of it.

Their savior was quiet as he led them through the shadows of the city, eventually passing them off to a contact of his.

The man waiting for them was even more frightening to behold; taller than any elf should be, with unusual scars carved into his skin and a voice like disturbed thunder. Out of sheer reflex, Ashiri side-stepped in front of her younger brother, shielding him from view.

The white-haired man scoffed, rolling his eyes before pulling the other elf aside. They exchanged a few hushed words before the blond thanked him and began fading once more into the blackness of the night.

"You're not coming with us?" Ashiri asked, feeling her heart sink.

"Unfortunately, no. My work here is not quite done. But do tell Shianni I said hello. She'll be expecting you."

With those final words and no name given, he was gone as quickly as he'd appeared, almost as if he were never there at all.

And then they were back on the move.

The rest of the night was a blur. Ashiri was rattled, thinking at any moment guards would seize them and return them to the Magisters' collective in chains.

But the man with the white hair kept them safe and hidden, seeming to know these streets like the back of his hand. Only once did they come across a gaurd, to which he'd held up his palm and told them to stay put. He'd stepped into the light then, and a guttural scream had been heard. Ashiri had held onto Tennen tightly, pretending not to hear the wet _splat_ that'd followed, doing her best not to stare at the man's bloody gauntlet when he returned to their side.

The ship they boarded was discreet, if not decrepit. Another elf met them on board, bringing them below deck and settling them in for travel amongst a cluster of other refugees. Together they found a place between tied-down crates that seemed secure, leaning against them as they sank to the ground.

Ashiri held Tennen in her arms, stroking his hair to comfort him as he trembled. She was only older by two years, but felt ancient as she replayed all the horrors she'd witnessed since their arrival in this city.

Slowly, as Tevinter grew smaller and smaller in the distance, the waves finally rocked Tennen to sleep. Ashiri stayed awake, on alert and ever vigilant as she sang a lullaby under her breath.

One she'd never quite forgotten.  
  


* * *

Zevran was weary of traveling. So many years spent on the road would drive any man to insanity, and he himself felt as though he'd crossed Thedas thrice over now since the end of the Blight.

Denerim, however, was always a welcome sight. He walked through the alienage gates with a touch of nostalgia, taking in the patched-up buildings and newly cobbled roads. It seemed like a lifetime ago now that Anja had first led their group of miscreants across this very same bridge, that the darkspawn had crashed through the gates only to be shot at by the Dalish archers who'd come to their aide.

"Uncle Zevran!"

The assassin braced himself for impact as he entered the square, feeling Shianni's young son all but barrel him over in excitement. Anja's nephew was much like his mother - who was an explosive, boisterous force of a woman. So much unlike the Warden herself, who'd been quiet and calculating; whose rare laughs had felt like gifts bestowed upon him directly by the Maker.

"We were wondering when you'd arrive," Shainni said with a laugh, peeling her son away and hoisting him up onto her hip.

Zevran could barely bring himself to look her in the eye, knowing he had to be the bearer of bad news. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a large silver ring stamped with a fern. He handed it over.

"I'm sorry...I was too late for Harmon. Apparently he passed away three years ago. An illness of the heart."

Shianni's smile vanished for a moment, her expression pensive. "I'll...inform his wife. It will be good for her, if nothing else, to have that closure."

She pocketed the ring, then reached up and squeezed his shoulder.

"Zev, don't beat yourself up. Look around you. Alistair may have built these roads, but you're the one out there - Void knows where - looking for our people. There's no greater gift this community could ever receive. My cousin...she'd be proud of you."

He bid her goodbye, a lump in his throat, waltzing through the common grounds, one last piece of business to attend to before he hit the road again.

His eyes flickered to the many bustling figures around him. One trio in particular caught his eye, an older woman laughing at her own clumsiness as she stumbled, dropping an armful of fruit to the ground. Her son quickly darted forward to collect them. He was visibly half-blind, playfully shoving his sister as he stood back up. The young lady now in retaliation had long black hair to match her mother's, tied back in the same, neatly kept fashion. When she spotted him her features softened in gratitude. She took her mother's arm and leaned into her proudly, as if to show her off. He nodded in acknowledgement, glad they'd made it across the border no worse for wear.

Zevran approached the tree at the center of the alienage in quiet reverence. There was a statue of his beloved near the Palace, true, and her bones themselves lay decorated within the Tomb of Heroes in Weisshaupt, yet this was the shrine he knew would have meant the most to her. After all, it had been for her home and people that she had graciously given her life.

Her dented chest plate was hung from the center of the trunk, the proud silver griffin glistening as the sunlight reflected off its surface. On either side of it her sabers were mounted, their curved, enchanted blades still wickedly sharp as if freshly forged. The ground around the tree was littered with gifts and offerings; dried wildflowers and candles that had long since burnt out.

With a heavy heart he reached into his pocket and pulled out the slaver's necklace, hanging it from the handle of one of her swords.

"For you, _amor_ ," he whispered.

The gold would have matched the earring he'd given her perfectly.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos/comments appreciated!


End file.
